"Konstantin! it's time we got up," said the mistress, rising from her chair. Platonov rose, Kostanzhoglo rose, Chichikov rose, though he wanted to go on sitting and listening. Offering her the crook of his arm, he led the mistress back. But his head was not affably inclined to one side, his maneuvering lacked adroitness, because his thoughts were occupied with essential maneuvers and considerations.

"However you describe it, all the same it's boring," Platonov said, walking behind him.

"Our guest seems far from stupid," the host was thinking, "temperate in his speech, and no whippersnapper." And this thought made him still more cheerful, as if he had warmed himself up with his own conversation and rejoiced to find a man ready to listen to intelligent advice.

Later, when they were all settled in a snug little candle-lit room across from the glass balcony door that served as a window, Chichikov felt cozier than he had felt for a long time. It was as if after long peregrinations he had now been received under his own roof, and to crown it all, had now obtained all that he desired and had dropped his pilgrim's staff, saying: "Enough!" So enchanting was the mood brought upon his soul by the host's reasonable talk. For every man there are certain words that are as if closer and more intimate to him than any others. And often, unexpectedly, in some remote, forsaken backwater, some deserted desert, one meets a man whose warming conversation makes you forget the pathlessness of your paths, the homelessness of your nights, and the contemporary world full of people's stupidity, of deceptions for deceiving man. Forever and always an evening spent in this way will vividly remain with you, and all that was and that took place then will be retained by the faithful memory: who was there, and who stood where, and what he was holding—the walls, the corners, and every trifle.

So, too, did everything remain in Chichikov's memory that evening: this unpretentiously furnished little room, and the good-natured expression that settled on the host's face, and the pipe brought to Platonov, with its amber mouthpiece, and the smoke that he began blowing into Yarb's fat muzzle, and Yarb's snorting, and the comely mistress's laughter, interrupted by the words: "Enough, don't torment him," and the cheery candles, and the cricket in the corner, and the glass door, and the spring night looking in at them through it, leaning its elbow on the tree-tops, where in the thicket spring nightingales were whistling away.

"Sweet is your talk to me, my esteemed Konstantin Fyodorovich," said Chichikov. "I may say that in the whole of Russia I have never met a man to equal you in intelligence."

He smiled.

"No, Pavel Ivanovich," he said, "if you want to know an intelligent man, then we do indeed have one of whom it may truly be said, 'This is an intelligent man,' and of whom I am not worth the shoe sole."

"Who is he?" Chichikov asked in amazement.

"Our tax farmer, Murazov."

"This is the second time I'm hearing about him!" Chichikov exclaimed.

"He's a man who could manage not just a landowner's estate, but a whole country. If I had a country, I'd make him minister of finance at once."

"I've heard. They say he's a man who surpasses all belief, he's made ten million, they say."

"Ten, nothing! it's way over forty. Soon half of Russia will be in his hands."

"You don't say!" Chichikov exclaimed, dumbfounded.

"Quite certainly. His capital must be growing now at an incredible rate. That's clear. Wealth grows slowly only when you have just a few hundred thousand; a man with millions has a big radius; whatever he gets hold of becomes two or three times more than it was. The field, the range is all too vast. There are no rivals here. No one can vie with him. Whatever price he assigns to a thing, so it stays: there's no one to bid higher."

Pop-eyed and openmouthed, Chichikov gazed into Kostanzhoglo's eyes as if rooted to the spot. There was no breath in him.

"The mind boggles!" he said, recovering himself slightly. "Thought is petrified with fear. People are amazed at the wisdom of Providence as they examine a little bug; for me it is more amazing that such enormous sums can pass through a mortal's hands!

Allow me to put a question to you concerning one circumstance; tell me, this, to be sure, was originally acquired not quite sinlessly?"

"In the most irreproachable fashion, and by the most correct means."

"I can't believe it, my esteemed sir, excuse me, but I can't believe it. If it were thousands, very well, but millions . . . excuse me, but I can't believe it."

"Quite the contrary, with thousands it's hard to be quite sinless, but to make millions is easy. A millionaire has no need to resort to crooked ways. Just go on and take the straight road, take all that lies before you! No one else will pick it up."

"The mind boggles! And what's most mind-boggling is that the whole thing started from a kopeck!"

"It never happens otherwise. It's the rightful order of things," said Kostanzhoglo. "He who was born with thousands, who was brought up on thousands, will acquire no more: he already has his whims and whatnot! One ought to begin from the beginning, not from the middle. From below, one ought to begin from below. Only then do you get to know well the people and life amidst which you'll have to make shift afterwards. Once you've suffered this or that on your own hide, and have learned that every kopeck is nailed down with a three-kopeck nail, and have gone through every torment, then you'll grow so wise and well schooled that you won't blunder or go amiss in any undertaking. Believe me, it's the truth. One ought to begin from the beginning, not from the middle. If anyone says to me: 'Give me a hundred thousand and I'll get rich at once'—I won't believe him: he's striking at random, not with certainty. One ought to begin with a kopeck!"

"In that case I'll get rich," said Chichikov, "because I'm beginning, so to speak, from almost nothing."

He had in mind the dead souls.

"Konstantin, it's time we let Pavel Ivanovich rest and get some sleep," said the mistress, "but you keep babbling."

"And you will certainly get rich," said Kostanzhoglo, not listening to the mistress. "Rivers, rivers of gold will flow to you. You won't know what to do with such money."

Pavel Ivanovich sat as one enchanted, and his thoughts were whirling in a golden realm of growing dreams and reveries.

"Really, Konstantin, it's time Pavel Ivanovich slept."

"But what is it to you? Go yourself, if you want to," the host said, and stopped: loudly, through the whole room, came the snoring of Platonov, after whom Yarb began to snore even louder. For a long time already a distant banging on iron rails had been heard. It was getting past midnight. Kostanzhoglo observed that it was indeed time to retire. They all wandered off, having wished each other good night and hastening to make use of the wish.

Only Chichikov was unable to sleep. His thoughts were wakeful. He was pondering how to become a landowner like Kostanzhoglo. After his conversation with the host, everything had become so clear; the possibility of getting rich seemed so obvious. The difficult matter of management had now become so plain and simple, and seemed so suited to his very nature, that he began to have serious thoughts of acquiring not an imaginary but a real estate; he decided then and there that with the money he would get from the bank for mortgaging his fantastic souls, he would acquire a by no means fantastic estate. He already saw himself acting and managing precisely as Kostanzhoglo instructed—efficiently, prudently, not introducing anything new before learning thoroughly everything old, examining everything with his own eyes, getting to know all the muzhiks, spurning all excesses, giving himself only to work and management. He already anticipated beforehand the pleasure he would feel when a harmonious order was established and all the springs of management began working briskly, energetically pushing each other. Work would be at the boil, and just as a well-running mill swiftly produces flour from grain, so all sorts of trash and rubbish would start producing pure gold, pure gold. The wondrous proprietor stood before him every moment. He was the first man in the whole of Russia for whom he felt personal respect. Until now he had respected men either for their high rank or for their great wealth! He had never yet respected any man for his intelligence proper. Kostanzhoglo was the first. Chichikov also understood that there was no point in talking with such a man about dead souls, and that the mere mention of it would be inappropriate. He was now occupied with another project—to buy Khlobuev's estate. He had ten thousand: another ten thousand he meant to borrow from Kostanzhoglo, who had just himself announced his readiness to help anyone who wished to get rich and take up estate management. The remaining ten thousand he could pledge to pay later, once the souls had been mortgaged. He could not yet mortgage all the souls he had bought, because there was still no land for him to resettle them on. Though he averred that he had land in Kherson province, it as yet existed mostly in intent. The intention was still to buy up land in Kherson province because it was sold there for next to nothing and was even given away free, if only people would settle there. He also thought about the need to hurry up and buy whatever runaway and dead souls could be found, because landowners were hastening to mortgage their estates, and it might soon be that in all Russia there was no corner left not mortgaged to the treasury. All these thoughts filled his head one after another and kept him from sleeping. Finally sleep, which for four full hours had held the whole house, as they say, in its embrace, finally took Chichikov into its embrace as well. He fell fast asleep.